I sit straight up at that, my brain cells in a panic, all of them running around shoutingwhat the hell does that meanat the same time.
A poorly edited version of this question leaves my mouth: “What?”
She seems calmer now, her eyes narrowing. “I don’t need technology to understand you, either.”
“Whoa, wait.” I hold up a hand. “Look, I wasn’t threatening you. I was just trying to explain—”
“You think you’re so mysterious—”
“No, I don’t—”
“Well, you’re not,” she says sharply. “You’re not mysterious. Your methods are obvious. You rely on veils of distraction, using humor and charm to cast yourself as a hapless, incapable opponent, only to then slaughter your enemies as if it costs you nothing. You pretend to be reckless when you’re not. You pretend to be weak when you’re not. You pretend to be stupid when you’re not. You live by some impenetrable moral code,deciding at your own discretion whether something is worth dying for, and then act as if your sacrifice means nothing. You feign boredom even when you’re paying attention. You smile even when you’re angry—especially when you’re angry.” She leans in. “You’re a liar. Deep down, you don’t think this world is funny. Deep down, you’re simmering with rage. You think I can’t see straight through you? You live your life as if nothing can hurt you even though your body is covered in scars.”
These words detonate inside me.
The result is a mess: my heart is beating out of my chest; my head is surging with heat. I want to go back to the person I was five minutes ago. It’s like my rib cage has been split open, like a magician just pulled the organs out of my body and is now tossing them into a jeering crowd.
Jesus. I can’t stop staring at her.
Rosabelle is sitting back in her seat, looking at me with those slow, sleepy eyes, and I’m so arrested in the moment I can hardly make out anything beyond her head. I’m not even mad that she just tore me to pieces. No woman has ever stripped me bare like that. Hell, no woman has ever studied me with this level of intensity, and the longer our eyes hold the harder my heart beats.
I want to know what else she thinks of me.
I want to know what she’s thinking right now. I want to know what other things she’s hiding behind those strange eyes; she’s clearly keeping all kinds of secrets. And I don’t even realize I’m staring at her like a prepubescent teenager until I drop my fork and the metal clatters,startling me.
I swallow. Sit back in my seat.
Fuck.This is bad.
It takes me a second, but I finally reset my head, find my voice. I clear my throat and say, “That was, um, really mean.”
“What?” She recoils in surprise. “No, it wasn’t.”
“It was,” I say, picking up my fallen fork. “You hurt my feelings. I think you should apologize.”
Her eyes widen. She actually seems to consider this, and the split second she spends weighing her options tells me everything I need to know about this girl.
When she sees me fighting a laugh, she goes rigid with outrage.
“You just did it again,” she says. “You’re such a liar—”
“Listen,” I say, shaking my head. “I’m going to take a wild guess here and assume you don’t have a clue how to have a normal, polite conversation. I’m guessing the serial killer life didn’t teach you how to be casual. It probably wasn’t the relaxing stress reliever you thought it would be when you first signed up for the job—”
“I didn’t sign up for it,” she says, cutting me off.
“Okay.”
“I was born into it.”
Now it’s my turn to go very still. The Nexus thing was maybe not a big deal, but this feels important. I keep my eyes on my food, reintroducing motion a little at a time.I pick at the lettuce slowly, keep my shoulders loose. Wait for her to fill the silence.
“I wouldn’t have chosen this life,” she says. “It was what my parents wanted for me.”
Yes. Okay. This is good.
Horrible.Objectivelyhorrible, but good intel.
Finally, we’re getting somewhere. Warner will know what to do with this information, but I understand enough about the classist hierarchy of The Reestablishment to know that, if Rosabelle’s parents chose this path for her, she must’ve come from a rich family. When the parents choose the profession, they pay for it, and they start the kids young. Which means Warner was right. She’s been trained in this since childhood. Rosabelle is probably some kind of super-high-class mercenary. That would explain the fancy wedding invitation to the fancy douchebag. Except—
